Steve's Big Day
When you're younger everyone play-fights, pretends to wrestle, or just beats the crap out of your friends. How else are you suppose to figure out who among your group of friends can back up their shit-talking, or who can back up your shit-talking. But no where in the unwritten teenage fight manual does it say you can use foriegn objects, and now I know why.
I have a freind named Steve. Granted, he is the friendliest, kind-hearted kid, but when he was fourteen he got no respect. Hell, one time we locked him out of his own house and broke all his stuff (there is more to that story, but we'll leave it at that). Steve just took it with a grain of salt. That's the way Steve was, and is. If you picked on him he just laughed it off. Then one day I took Steve to a level that he, and all of us in my tight-knit group of friends thought we would never reach.
It was just another night in Evan's basement. We were listening to WJUL and practicing our kick-flips. The five of us had just gotten in from a hard day of skateboarding at New Searles school. It was sumer so the sun stayed out long enough for us to skate in the light until we were sore. I can't remember how the fighting, the fake fighting started. Maybe extra hormones from puberty seaped into our heads, or left over adrenaline from a sweaty day of scraped arms and rolled ankles. Either way there was a hint of blood-lust in all of us that night. Mike and Alex were the first combatants of the evening. A simple fight, nothing to memorable. Mike came out the victor. Which didn't suprise us, because Mike was the biggest shit-talker out of all of us. At least we hoped we wouldn't be suprised.
This next part is a little hazy. I don't remember how Steve and I started fighting. I don't even remember the middle of the fight, but I sure as hell won't forget the ending. Where my memory leaves off, Stevehad me in a leg lock. It hurt, alot, and I couldn't move. The little guy was had me, he was going to win. After all the humiliations and beatings he had recieved, Steve was going to be the one on top when all this was over. Finally he was going to get a little respect from the four of us. Then with a CRACK! I put Steve back in his place.
I said I couldn't move, what I should have told you was i couldn't move my legs. My arms were free to grab and reach, which I did. I picked up the first "weapon" I could reach, a skateboard. A skateboard that hours ago provided us with so much pleasure, was now going to be the tool that caused all this pain. Wel.... the skateboard and my pig-headedness. So I gave it a toss in Steve's direction. He had been lying his back the whole time, with his legs in a figure four around mine. But with Steve's "luck" out taking a crap at the tim, he sat up, he fucking sat up. Right when I lobed the board at him he sat up.
With a splitting SNAP! that seemed to cut through the fun in the basement and pierce the night air, Steve went down. The tip, the sharpest part of the board hit him square between the eyes.He then crumpled over grasping his forehead. He laid still, face down. The mounting tension ws unreal. None of us knew the severity of his wound, and that made the tension worse. After what seemed like hours, a growing puddle of blood emerged from under Steve's battered head. That's when panic sunk in...
If you want to find out what happened to Steve, just drop a line on the WiseGuy Message Board. I won't write the rest unless you want to here it. Also I want people to send in stories, poem's and essay's. Send those to my e-mail
address, come on, you know you want to.